“Just forget it, Lucy! Keep your secrets to yourself!” He stomped out, slamming the heavily paneled oak door. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. Then there was also the horse. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. " "You flatter me," smiled Sir James. Kneebone, having been alarmed by something in the widow's look before her feelings found vent in the manner above described, thrust his hand instinctively into his coat in search of his pocket-book,—about the security of which, as it contained several letters and documents implicating himself and others in the Jacobite plot, he was, not unnaturally, solicitous,—and finding it gone, he felt certain he had been robbed. "Give them what you please.
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